A Voyage to New Lincoln
by Juliana Brandagamba
Summary: A crossover between Around the World in Eighty Days and The Mysterious Island, both by Jules Verne. Phileas Fogg was not satisfied by his travels and desires to see more of America; but he, Passepartout and Mme Aouda will get more than their money's worth, at least in terms of adventure.
1. Phileas Fogg

Phileas Fogg found fame, as you might well know, from his voyage that he made by going around the world in eighty days. I know about that voyage better than most, for I was with him – me, Jean Passepartout, the valet and, I rather hope, friend of this accomplished gentleman. Of course, it was Phileas Fogg who reaped the great rewards of this journey, for not only did he gain his wager of £20,000 – a princely sum, you might well say, and I would agree – but he won the hand in marriage of one of the most beautiful women I have ever set eyes on: Madame Aouda (as I call her – to Phileas Fogg she is but Aouda, for she is now his wife, and they love each other dearly).

But what became of me? I remain still in the service of Phileas Fogg, but, of course, he regards me not so much as a servant as a companion and – I dearly hope, _comme j'ai dit _– a friend. Yet still I get given a good deal of work: indeed, straight after our return to England I had a good deal of work to do, to make up for the gas that was burnt unnecessarily in a gaslight I left on.

Phileas Fogg, as you probably know, is an English gentleman, very proper, very phlegmatic – just the opposite to the image of a traveller and adventurer. Yet that is just what he is, and it seems to me that the Fogg who dines at the Reform Club and is so exact and punctual in his day-to-day actions is an entirely different man to the Fogg who decided on a whim (and with the incentive of £20,000) to circumnavigate the globe. But even now I can see a dash of the adventurous Fogg in him: he might manage to keep himself utterly composed, but I have noticed on more than one occasion a spark of something in his eye when I mention our trip, or when Mme Aouda talks to him of India or other Eastern lands – every time he hears of travelling, or of other nations, he seems to breathe in sharply and twitch his usually unmoving eyebrows.

My suspicion that he wanted to travel again was confirmed when one day he summoned me to the lounge in which he and Mme Aouda were seated, and asked me this:

'How did you find America when we were there?'

I could hardly reply that being captured by Indians and nearly killed by them had been a somewhat rattling experience. Phileas Fogg already had his Atlas open and was scrutinising it. From where I was sitting, it appeared that he desired to visit the north-eastern part, for this was the map he studied so intently.

'I like well the civilised parts,' I replied, though it had been only relief that I had felt when we had come to the cities and civilisation of the east.

'I wonder, Passepartout –' and here he stopped, following something on the map with his finger. 'I thought that I might go again – to the eastern states.' My thoughts were confirmed. 'I sense that our brief taste of New York might not have been sufficient – and as for the rest of the country –'

I did not say anything, for I knew that his mind was already made up; and _de toute façon_, who was I to object?

'Very well,' said Phileas Fogg without waiting for an answer. 'Prepare our bags; we leave on Thursday.'

It being then Tuesday, I could not help looking astonished. Mme Aouda smiled slightly, and stood; she nodded to me. 'We seem to have shocked our friend here, my dear,' she said. 'Mr Passepartout, I assure you that Phileas is more organised than he seems. We had planned this trip before now.'

Yet I had not been told of it, and I felt more than a little resentment because of this; nevertheless, I said nothing and went then to my task.


	2. Arrival in New York

And so on Thursday we found ourselves travelling by train to Liverpool, from where we were to catch a steamer for America. I found myself remembering the last time we had crossed the Atlantic – from New York to England on our world tour. That had not gone all too well. I rather hoped that this crossing would be comfortable and lack the chaos of our last journey.

The weather was fair, which was a relief. Our crossing was reasonable; it took just over a week to reach New York. I had had a cabin to myself, next to that of Phileas Fogg and Mme Aouda; I had tried to get time to myself on the way, for I was not needed to serve my master; I saw him at meals and in the evenings, when we enjoyed each other's company, but other than that I tried to consider myself on holiday.

We came in sight of the great continent of America on the ninth day of travelling. I stood on the deck watching the coast come nearer, the breeze lightly ruffling my hair, the conditions rather _merveilleux._ After a short while Phileas Fogg and Mme Aouda joined me, coming hand-in-hand to my side, looking out over the rippling sea; Mme Aouda's eyes were excited, and Phileas Fogg's eyes rather brighter even than usual. He had changed – our journey and his wife had changed him. I wasn't sure if I liked that or not. _Cependant_, I was his servant, and it was not my place to comment.

'We are nearly there,' I said, for want of something else to say.

'Indeed,' said Phileas Fogg.

We were silent for a bit; then Mme Aouda spoke. 'My dear Passepartout, what bothers you?'

Ah, _les femmes_! They always seem to be able to guess your thoughts. 'Nothing, Madame,' I replied. 'I wonder – what are we going to do when we are in America?'

'I have an itinerary planned,' my master informed me, handing me a slip of paper. In his immaculate handwriting he had noted down a list of sights and restaurants he wanted to visit, exact times at which we were going to visit them, and the hotels we would be staying in, with times to the precise minutes, meticulous to the point of absurdness.

I hid a grimace and handed the paper back. I had admired Phileas Fogg's nature when first I had arrived in England, but remaining the same abroad seemed to me bizarre.

'Very well, master,' I said.

'And now I believe it is time for lunch, and then we shall be in New York,' Phileas Fogg declared, half-ignoring me. He offered his arm to Mme Aouda, and led her inside. After a moment spent staring into the middle distance, looking upon the nearing landmass that was America, I followed.

We docked in New York not long after dinner. Phileas Fogg and Mme Aouda were almost the first off the ship, and I was not far behind, lugging with me a carpet-bag – the same carpet-bag, indeed, that had served us so well on our voyage around the world. This time however it was filled not with money but with mainly Mme Aouda's belongings. (Phileas Fogg always travels light – a change of clothes, a deck of cards and his ubiquitous umbrella – carried on his arm as usual – comprised his entire luggage on this trip.)

New York! All the words on Earth could not describe this city, such a contrast from European cities though it was Europeans who built it. Bustling and vibrant, and yet overwhelmingly different, it had interested me somewhat the last time I had come, though we had not spent nearly enough time there, and most of that time was spent at the docks. But here we were, once again in America and staying awhile this time. I was joyful at this fact, though I wished that we could be a little more flexible whilst we were on holiday – for it was a holiday, not a wager, not a mad voyage – a holiday, and I was prepared to do anything to keep it that way.


	3. Harbert Brown

That evening in our hotel we had rather a marvellous dinner – large, in the American style, with a remarkable amount of meat and an array of desserts to choose from. I did not like to ask how much it was costing my master, but I would not complain.

Afterwards Phileas Fogg and Mme Aouda retired to their room; I asked leave to go into the city. I had been told that the evenings were quite the best time to explore New York – when the Sun was setting, when the air was cool and fresh, when the restaurants and theatres were at their busiest.

But I had barely got further than the lobby of the hotel when a young man ran up to me. I did not recognise him; he was perhaps twenty, with a neat crop of dark curly hair, dressed very smartly for a youth, with a wise, intelligent look to him and twinkling eyes. I looked him up and down; it was more than a moment before he spoke.

'I'm sorry to bother you, sir,' he said in a distinct accent that suggested he was local, 'but the man who was with you – is he by any chance Phileas Fogg?'

I raised my eyebrows at this. 'Yes...'

'My heavens! Really? Sorry – I had to know. I thought I recognised him from the newspaper. Gideon – Gideon Spilett – wrote an article about him in the _New Lincoln Herald_ when he was in America, on his tour of the world – was it a tour of the world?'

The enthusiastic tirade nearly bowled me over. For a second I could not reply; then I said, 'Yes. It was.' I tried to stop myself grimacing – our adventure in America had not been pleasant. 'I don't suppose this Gideon Spilett mentioned Fogg's servant Jean Passepartout?'

The lad thought for a moment. 'Yes, I believe there was a passing mention –' Here he paused. 'Wait – you're not...'

'Jean Passepartout – si,' I replied, my chest swelling slightly at my small measure of fame. 'I was with Phileas Fogg on his entire _tour du monde_.'

'Delighted to meet you,' the young man said at once, proffering his hand, which I shook. 'Harbert Brown. I'm nobody important.'

But it had just then occurred to me where I had heard the name Gideon Spilett and the _New Lincoln Herald_ mentioned before. '_Mais si_! Unless I am much mistaken, was it you who escaped the American Civil War and lived for many years on an island?'

'Lincoln Island, yes,' he replied, astonished. 'Did that story reach Europe then?'

'It was mentioned,' I told him. 'Not in detail, but – was it three years ago you returned? I remember reading about it. You were with a famous engineer – I don't recall his name, it was something like Cyril Smith?'

'Cyrus,' Harbert corrected me. 'Cyrus Smith.'

'_Mais oui_. Cyrus.' I paused. 'So you returned to New York afterwards?'

'Oh, no, no!' Harbert laughed a pleasant laugh. 'No, we all live in Iowa now, in what we call Lincoln Island, even though it isn't an island.'

'All of you?'

'Yes, all of us. Me and Mr Smith and Pencroff – he's my adoptive father – and Gideon Spilett and Nab and Ayrton. We couldn't leave each other. Not after Lincoln Island. We're like brothers. And New Lincoln – well, you should see it. It's magnificent.' He hesitated for a moment, and added, 'Not that you'd be that impressed – if you've done the tour of the world!'

'In eighty days,' I reminded him. 'There was little time to see much. I should most likely be pleased to see New Lincoln.'

'Perhaps you will,' the young man replied. 'You would be welcome, if you decided to visit.'

At this I felt something stir within me, for I was greatly interested by the tale of these friends, and quite wanted to see the land they had made their own. I wondered if I might be able to persuade my master to let us go to Iowa...


	4. Iowa

A day later we had broken the immaculate schedule and were on the way to magnificent Iowa, rattling along in a train not unlike the one that had borne us across America going the other way. Phileas Fogg was composed, as usual, not at all ruffled, as if we were still running to his plan; Mme Aouda was staring out of the window with mildly fascinated eyes. For my part I was talking animatedly with young Harbert Brown, finding out about his incredible four years spent on Lincoln Island; I heard how he and his friends had developed the island, discovered that they could live there for a long while, make it part of the Union indeed; I heard how they had felt the influence of some mysterious being helping them along, and had eventually found out that this was in fact the infamous Captain Nemo; Harbert told then in a somewhat subdued voice how the volcano that dominated the island had erupted with enough force to tear the island apart, and they would all have perished but for the _Duncan_ and its crew that had passed at just the right moment. I saw how the young man's eyes shone when he talked of the island and its beauty, its every facet; I saw how they filled with tears as he came to the end of his narration, and he had to blink them back.

'It sounds magnificent,' said Mme Aouda, who had also been listening to this extraordinary tale.

'It was,' said Harbert, but could say no more. 'Iowa is nearly that. You'll see. But your journey must have been incredible. Your round-the-world trip, I mean.'

'Oh, it was,' I replied. And I launched into a detailed account of the voyage, to which Aouda and occasionally Phileas Fogg contributed. I had more to tell than the others, however, because it was me to whom all of the misfortunes and adventures seemed to have happened. I was quite proud to tell of how I had rescued Mme Aouda from the grip of those who would have burned her alive with her dead husband; Harbert listened with a deep interest, and when I had finished my story he grinned.

'It must have been incredible,' he breathed. 'I had read a little about it in the _New Lincoln Herald_, but to hear it from...' He seemed a little star-struck – unusual considering his own connexions, but pleasing nevertheless: our fame had reached places I had not even heard of.

There was a lull then in the conversation; Phileas Fogg asked me to check my watch, and I told him that we were exactly on schedule. We should soon be in Iowa, and near to the huge estate that Harbert had briefly described to us, bought by the Lincoln Islanders as a replacement for their lost home of four years; and we would be soon to meet his friends, whose names were now rather well-known throughout the Old and New Worlds.

* * *

We were met at the station by a tall, slightly rugged gentleman with a brown friendly face and sparkling eyes. He greeted Harbert; then he turned to us, his expression curious.

'Ah, these are friends of mine,' Harbert said, seeming then to remember that he had only just met us. 'They are the famous around-the-world travellers – Phileas and Aouda Fogg, and Jean Passepartout.'

'Ah! Really?' cried the man in surprise. 'Delighted to meet you –' and he thrust out his hand, shaking ours with such vigour that I thought mine might drop off. 'Yes, a friend of mine, Gideon Spilett, did quite a marvellous feature about your journey.'

'I've mentioned that,' said Harbert, smiling. 'This is my adoptive father Pencroff,' he added, seeing that we had not been introduced.

'A pleasure,' we all said.

'I met these three in New York,' Harbert explained to his father. 'I have invited them back to New Lincoln, if that is all right.'

'It's perfectly all right,' beamed Pencroff. 'Well, shall we be off? I have a trap waiting. There will be room for everyone, I'm sure of it.'


	5. New Lincoln

We rode by pony-trap to the grand estate that was now called New Lincoln, or Lincoln Island, chattering merrily with our new friends, finding out yet more about their wondrous time on their island and sharing anecdotes about our _tour du monde_. Then at length we came within view of the property: and how magnificent it was! We crested the hill that Harbert told us was named Mount Franklin, after the volcano on the first Lincoln Island, and from there saw the estate spread out before us: rolling fields, some cropland, some pasture; a verdant forest in the west; and, in the centre, a little courtyard of wooden buildings with paths radiating from it. We approached from the east, and entered through an archway into a circle of stables.

Harbert jumped from the trap to stable the horses; Pencroff followed, and helped Mme Aouda down; Phileas Fogg and I followed afterwards. A farmyard smell, not unpleasant, pervaded our nostrils, and I felt almost at home immediately, though I was in truth a city-dweller. The place was quiet but welcoming – peaceful, certainly, and with a very friendly atmosphere.

'_C'est parfait_,' I said at once to Pencroff, who just nodded, smiling. Whilst Harbert was busy in the stables he led us through to a quadrangle of farm buildings, one of which was a house, the others workshops of some sort. In the centre of the cobbled courtyard a fire was burning in a brazier, casting long shadows as the Sun began to set, and the smell of wood-smoke was simply wonderful. And there in the yard was one of the other Lincoln Islanders, carrying an armful of logs to the fire: a merry-looking fellow whom I might have called African had Harbert not already told me that Nab was in fact born in America. He looked up and saw us, and smiled widely, showing a set of magnificently white teeth.

'Evening, Nab,' cried Pencroff. 'Harbert has brought us some visitors.' And he introduced us, and Nab seemed as excited as the others to meet us.

'My master and Mr Spilett are just through in the lounge,' he told us when Pencroff asked. 'I am sure they would be delighted to meet you, Mr and Mrs Fogg, Mr Passepartout.'

I had so rarely been called "Mr" of late that I was mildly surprised; I only then recalled that Nab was the former servant of Cyrus Smith, and so would perhaps consider me more highly than himself. But he in fact was no longer a servant, and I was, so in that respect I was a little jealous. Nevertheless, he as I was loyal to his master; but he was devoted in a way that I perhaps never would be.

We were taken through then to a lovely country lounge: done out in rustic reds and browns, and with a fire blazing in the grate; six or seven chairs were set around this hearth, and two were then occupied. The man whom I presumed to be Cyrus Smith (and was right, it turned out) was a highly intelligent-looking fellow, with bright and wise eyes; he was dressed immaculately, much like my master; unlike Phileas Fogg he had quite a magnificent beard such as I have never been able to grow, and Fogg would never allow to try. The other man was younger but no less clever in his appearance; his hands were long-fingered; his eyes quick, taking in everything: this must be the renowned reporter Gideon Spilett.

More introductions were thus made, and ended with us being invited to stay as long as we liked: Lincoln Island would provide for hundreds, thousands even, and the inhabitants were always ready to welcome guests, particularly those as intrepid and renowned as us, in the words of Cyrus Smith. Gideon Spilett was definitely the most excited to learn who we were: he had written about us without knowing us personally, and now at last he had met the subjects of his famous article. We pleased him further by giving him more information than he had ever known about the topic; he promised to write our visit and these extra anecdotes into a splendid article for the very next issue of the _New Lincoln Herald_ – which, I am sure, would be quite one of the most interesting editions for a while.


End file.
